


Cover

by hoomhum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Tartan and Stones is like Hooters but the servers are men in kilts, Undercover Work, all apologies for this travesty against Scottish heritage, everyone acknowledges it's sleazy as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: Greg is working the most revealing undercover gig of his career when Mycroft Holmes arrives on the scene.





	Cover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siriusblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/gifts).

> This fic is for siriusblue, who was absolutely lovely and bid on my lot in the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction and offered me the prompt "Mystrade first kiss under unusual circumstances". Thank you for your patience dear, and I hope you enjoy.

Dimmock had told him there were leftover donuts in the conference room, but Dimmock was a lying liar who lied, because what was actually in the conference room was a line up of uncomfortable looking sergeants and a disapproving looking civilian— a tall man wearing eyeliner and a kilt that could not possibly be traditional given the amount of thigh that he was flashing. 

Greg tried to close the door without being noticed, but wasn't quick enough.

"Yes," the kilt wearer said, darting forward and grabbing him by the arm. He dragged Greg into the room and began to circle him. "This is what I'm talking about! Oh honey, you are _ perfect _. Just look at you!"

"Uh?"

DCI Hobson approached, waving the sergeants from the room. They left, muttering amongst themselves, with a general air of relief.

"Lestrade, let me introduce you to Kyle McMurphy. Proprietor of Tartan and Stones."

Ah. The kilt thing clicked. Greg met his supervisor's gaze uncertainly. "I thought T&S was… small fish?" 

Technically, the Met couldn't go after a restaurant for being seedy and having a dress code that put its servers in kilts that only went halfway down the thigh. Even if its patrons were rumored to have connections with various organizations of interest.

"We are," Kyle said, leaning back against the conference table in front of Greg and giving him a wink. "Just the tiniest little fishy out there, hardly worth a bother. But your boss has orders and I have information to catch a few big ol whales, and _ you _, darling, are going to help us do it."

~

"Can I get you gents anything else?" Greg didn't quite stumble over the end of his sentence as he passed out the plates at table five, but it was a near thing. His gaze had found a familiar face— one Mycroft Holmes, whose own expression of surprise was limited to a nearly imperceptible lifting of the brow. Greg steadfastly did not blush, threw a smile at the group, and retreated, hyper-conscious of the fabric brushing his otherwise bare thighs.

"Where's McMurphy?" one of the sharply dressed men asked, forcing him to turn back. He peered at Greg's nametag, which one of the lads had done up for him in sharpie. "Greggie."

"Broke his ankle, I heard," Greg replied, trying to keep his tone light and conversational, despite the way the man's leer made him want to grind his teeth. "He was at the A&E when he phoned to see if I could cover for him."

"Mm, well, speedy recovery to him and all that," the man said. His gaze was decidedly not at eye level. "It's lovely to see you."

"Max will be taking care of you today. Just give him a shout if you need something," Greg replied shortly, nodding to the lad who was passing out drinks at the next table over. "Enjoy your meal."

This time he retreated much more quickly, only derailed by an indignant shout from across the room because some arrogant wanker had grabbed another of the servers and pulled him into his lap. 

Old copper's instincts took over, separating the two, taking the patron's name before forcefully ejecting him and his party from the restaurant lest he wanted the police to be called. He took Jay into the manager's office recommending that he press charges, only to be waved off and told this was barely anything. He offered to send the lad home, but he wanted to finish his shift— couldn't afford to lose any money. 

By the time Jay returned to the floor, Greg was in desperate need of a smoke. It'd been nearly six months, but god did he need one now.

He deputized Ivan, the head chef, in his absence and sneaked out the side door to the grim but well lit alley on the side of the building. Someone had hidden a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter beneath an overturned milk crate near the door. He pulled two free, tucking one behind his ear and making a mental note to buy replacements if this assignment went on much longer. 

"Le—" A voice behind him began, before cutting off with an unusual stumble. "Ah, Greg?"

He couldn't hold back the flush on his cheeks this time. Of course Mycroft Holmes would see him here, now, dressed like this. He turned and regarded the well composed man, giving him a nod.

"I'm working," he said carefully. He glanced at the building beside him, gesturing with the unlit cigarette. "Not, ah— well. You know."

Mycroft smirked. "Yes, I rather think I'd have been informed of such a significant change in your career."

Really? Greg thought. He wasn't certain he ranked that high on the man's radar. 

"Well, _ somebody _ has to do the groundwork. Lord knows your brother's not out here, faffing about in a skirt." It was of course at that moment that he fumbled the lighter. He stared at it on the ground. Mycroft looked at it too, making no move to pick it up for him.

"You'd been doing so well, anyway," he said instead, crossing the distance between them. He plucked the cigarette from behind Greg's ear and the one from his fingers, tucking both into his own breast pocket. "Tell me, what has you out here with the dregs of society? Doesn't seem quite… your division."

"Could ask the same of you," Greg replied, after a moment's delay. He felt a bit steamrolled. "Those friends of yours, in there?"

"Not in the slightest." Mycroft leaned in, keeping his voice low. "I suppose you could say I'm doing the same as you. Playing a role."

"Didn't think…" Greg's voice caught in his throat as Mycroft reached out to straighten his collar. "Er. Didn't think you went in for that. Legwork."

"Needs must. Know thy enemy and all that." 

Greg wished that his brain was more focused on the job than on the man's proximity. If it was he might pursue that line of inquiry. The enemy of his enemy… but instead he said, "See anything you like, in there?"

"Not in there, no," Mycroft began. He stopped abruptly, expression intent and head tipped toward the mouth of the alley. Greg held his breath as well and listened.

"Where'd Mike get to?" One voice said, followed by another that added, "Did he stop off for a smoke?"

"Come here."

Mycroft stepped forward, crowding Greg against the brick. He raised a hand to cup his cheek and kissed him, gently at first, but with a growing insistence that had Greg wrapping both arms around him, hands fisting in the back of his jacket. 

On the street, someone said, "Eh, he must've fucked off. Let's go."

Greg didn't stop kissing back and Mycroft didn't seem to mind. He put a hand high on Greg's waist, clutching at his white button up as he nuzzled deeper, lips parting. Greg's own hand drifted lower, copping a feel of the arse he always admired in Mycroft's well fitted suits. It only seemed fair, given how much of himself he'd exposed that day. 

When air became an absolute necessity they withdrew, only enough to breath again. 

"Tell me that wasn't just for cover," Greg said quietly, keeping his eyes on Mycroft's neck. He couldn't bear to look any higher, not with the chance that it had really just been a ploy. Mycroft's adam's apple bobbed as he chuckled.

"I've admired you for some time." He brushed Greg's lip with his thumb. "Though I admit that wasn't quite how I imagined our first kiss."

"Take me to dinner first, won't you?" 

"We've shared innumerable meals since becoming acquainted, but of course. I'd be happy to." 

"When I've finished this job, I'll hold you to that," Greg said, feeling giddy. He leaned in to kiss Mycroft again, gently this time, only to find the man pulled suddenly away from him.

Ivan was there, a towering man, wearing an apron and a frown. "You leave now."

Greg covered his face with his hand, mortified. Mycroft looked merely confused.

"We sell food, you eat food, you leave. We don't sell anything else." He turned to Greg. "You go back inside."

There was a tinge of pink on Mycroft's cheeks as understanding hit him. "I— no, that isn't what—"

"Ivan, thank you, but we're fine. Mycroft and I are old friends," Greg said, stepping in as Mycroft seemed to lose his composure. 

"The boys have nothing for you," Ivan repeated, pressing a hand to Mycroft's chest and physically insinuating himself between them. "Not you or your friends. I told them last week. I'll tell you now."

Greg blinked. He moved around to face Ivan, cautiously optimistic.

"You've seen those blokes before? Can I ask you about that?" He flashed Mycroft a grin. "Our interests might have aligned here. Give us a hand and we can make plans for that dinner sooner rather than later."

Mycroft's returning smile was almost predatory. "It would be my pleasure."  



End file.
